


Kissing the Shoreline

by theroguesgambit



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergent, M/M, Matchmaker Lydia, Misunderstandings, Pack Bonding, Past Lydia Martin/Jackson Whittemore, Summer, beach, post s.2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 11:59:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4478528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theroguesgambit/pseuds/theroguesgambit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles doesn’t want just any summer fling. He wants <em>Derek</em>. And Lydia is determined to help Stiles get him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kissing the Shoreline

“What we need,” Lydia Martin –– strawberry-blonde goddess and, until recently, the one and only love of one Stiles Stilinski’s life –– slides her attention from the people passing the outdoor café to eye him critically, “is to find some summer flings.”

It’s been about two weeks since Jackson-gate, when his parents decided to up and leave the country at a moment’s notice, taking the newly minted beta –– and, until recently, one and only love of  _Lydia Martin’s_  life –– with them.

The Stiles of three months ago would have been ecstatic. The Stiles of right now still can’t say he’s terribly broken up about seeing the last of the person who had been the bane of his high school, middle school, and much of his elementary school existence, but he does feel some empathy for Lydia –– who had to take the news in tandem with that of her best friend clearing out to France for the summer –– and even for Derek, whose betas have been dropping like flies since April. Even Isaac, considering the amount of time he’s been hanging around Scott recently (and  _no,_ Stiles is not the littlest bit bitter about that), seems to be hanging onto Derek’s pack by a thread. The guy had spent about half a second being not totally alone in the world, and even Jackson Whittemore has got to be better company than nothing.

There’s a very good reason why Stiles’ brain is jumping straight to Derek at the mention of “summer flings,” and that reason is also why Stiles is able to flash Lydia a smile and respond with no real degree of seriousness:

“You offering, Lyds?”

Three months ago, Stiles would have been  _utterly_ serious. And three months ago Lydia wouldn’t have been sitting in a café smiling at him. All in all, he’s pretty ok with the trade-off.

Even if he has managed to trade one impossible crush for another.

“Don’t be stupid, Stiles. You’re too important to use and toss away.” And, ok, so that might still give him a flutter. He’s  _moved on_  from Lydia, that doesn’t mean he’s not human. “Besides, flings are supposed to be a  _cleansing_ experience, Stiles. We need to give you a taste of what you’ve been craving so you can scratch that itch and move on from it. And I don’t think I’m going to do it for you right now.”

“Couldn’t hurt to try,” he says, because there’s no point in even pretending he doesn’t know exactly what Lydia’s talking about.

She tuts, stirring a straw through her melting ice and looking out at the busy main street again. Her eyes are narrowed, predatory and assessing, and he sees the exact moment when she deems a group of passing teenagers unworthy. 

“Of course, your situation’s a little different than mine. We could just cut past the cleansing and get you exactly what you want.”

Stiles chokes on his Frappuccino, mocha going up his nose and leaving him flailing for a napkin while she watches, unimpressed. He can’t even worry about that right now because as soon as he’s managed to swallow his mouthful he’s too busy sputtering, “Um,  _no_ , we really, really can’t?”

“So you’re telling me you’d rather go on dates with a string of meaningless people this summer than actually get your hands on—“

Stiles cuts her off with a high noise, throwing his hand up and glancing down the street because _they’re in_   _public_  here, out where people and creepy, perfectly chiseled lurker werewolves might be listening in.

Lydia rolls her eyes, but presses her lips together pointedly with an arched brow.

There are no werewolves in sight, but Stiles doesn’t put much weight behind that, and when he leans in to respond it’s in a low, urgent hiss.

“Look, I know you might not be familiar with the words ‘out of your league’ because they’ve never actually applied to you, but there are leagues and then there’s what we are, ok? And me and a certain  _someone_  whose name we are totally not mentioning… we aren’t even in the same  _sport_ , ok?”

Her expression is changing while he talks, going from impatient amusement to something like pity, and he really can’t deal with getting that look from Lydia Martin. He slumps back in the seat, staring determinedly at a bead of condensation sitting along the edge of his cup, not quite big enough yet to run down.

“So, you know, thanks. For the offer, I mean. But I’m thinking we should probably focus on your flinging, you know? I can be like your wingman, beat up the jerks for you when they refuse to back down.”

There’s a pause from Lydia that lasts just long enough for him to get worried. Then she pushes herself up from the table, the shuffle of movement knocking the bead of water free to race, skittering, down the side of the cup.

“Come on,” she says, in a tone that brooks no argument. “I don’t know all of the variables well enough to make an assessment. We’re going to visit Derek.”

.-

“I seriously can’t believe you thought bribing me with a popsicle would make me happy about this.”

Not that he doesn’t appreciate the cherry ice pop she’d stopped to buy for him on the way through the park (though some last remnants of his old crush and even more outdated chivalry had whined at her refusal to let him pay instead), but it’s definitely not enough to distract him from the fact that he and Lydia Martin are making their way to an abandoned train depot so she can “assess” his totally inappropriate crush on certain growly alphas that spent a significant chunk of last spring wanting to kill her.

This is his life, everyone.

She elbows him when he goes to suck on it again.

“It’s not a bribe,” she replies. “It’s part of the assessment. Don’t you dare finish it before we even get there.”

“It’s part of the…?” He trails off, staring down at the bright red stick, and feels his face go hot. “Wait, seriously?”

“Like I said, I have to test the variables.”

They’re too close to say anything else, her conspicuously expensive car pulling to a stop at the entrance to the supposedly abandoned train building (Stiles isn’t sure where Derek keeps his Camaro because it’s definitely not here). She tosses him a look that might be considered encouraging and then slides out of the car, leaving him (and his ice pop) to scramble after.

The place is as miserable looking as always, maybe more so without any of Derek’s leather-clad betas drifting around, flexing their claws importantly. It had at least looked like a legitimate lair last time Stiles had seen it; now it just looks empty and kind of sad.

Derek’s standing just outside one of the train cars, tense like he’d been preparing himself for a new life-threatening attack the second he heard the car. Which is, honestly, twitchy even for him.

As he takes the pair of them in –– Lydia trailing down the entrance steps in a summer dress and heels, Stiles with his popsicle -– his expression smoothes from  _red alert_  to confusion.

“What’s going on?” he says by way of greeting, and Stiles swallows around the real answer that threatens to bubble free in a flood of nerves. ( _We were just wondering if maybe you had an interest in dudes and, more specifically, in pale, gangly, loud mouthed human dudes who you generally find annoying but to their credit have saved your life on way more than one occasion?)_

He glances to Lydia, who shrugs.

“I figured it was about time I get to know you a little better. Since the circle of people who know about all this supernatural nonsense is pretty small in this town, and since it happens to include a lot of the people I’m closest to. Stiles seems to think it would be a good idea for us all to spend a little more time together.”

Derek’s eyes flit from Lydia back to Stiles, seeming surprised. Stiles echoes her shrug.

“Yeah, I mean, I definitely wouldn’t mind us spending more time together.” And it’s _such_  a line, and he wants to snatch it back the second it’s out there.  “I mean, for research and stuff, right? I think we’ve proven we all work a lot better against the baddies when we’re not busy trying to kill each other.”

“Which I forgive you for, by the way,” Lydia cuts in, graciously. “Since you thought I was killing people at the time.”

“You drugged me and used me to resurrect my uncle,” Derek replies, tone dry, like he hardly thinks  _he’s_  the one who needs to be forgiven.

Lydia doesn’t even blink, snorting at the comment.

“You mean: your uncle attacked me and then mind controlled me into drugging you and using you to resurrect him?”

Derek’s eyes narrow slightly at that, and Stiles kind of wants to shake him for just being the kind of person who launches himself to  _attack_ olive branches when they’re offered to him. (Kind of wants to shake himself for feeling so weirdly invested in whether Derek Hale can accept olive branches.) The popsicle’s dripping red juice on his hand and he ducks his head to lick it off.

When he looks up, Derek’s shifted his scowl from Lydia to Stiles’ hand. Stiles glances down at it.

“What? You want some?”

Derek looks away with a disgruntled huff that’s equal parts infuriating and attractive, turning his attention back to Lydia.

“Fine, we can agree to share information if and when necessary. Anything else?”

She smiles, takes a few careful steps and settles down onto one of the less grime-covered perches the room has to offer.

“No, that’s about it.”

Derek follows her progress with a mildly baffled expression, opens his mouth like he wants to question her but then thinks better of it. Instead he turns back to Stiles, who shrugs and goes back to sucking on his now rapidly melting ice pop.

He would’ve thought a big dark lair like this would be cooler in the summer.

Derek clears his throat, and it’s the most uncomfortable Stiles has ever heard him. And Stiles has heard him sputtering not to drown and with claws through his chest. He looks up, mouth full of cherry red goodness, to find the guy fixing him with what is most definitely a scowl.

“You’re still here,” he says, the weight of  _why_  behind the statement, and Stiles winces because there is definitely no chance of Derek being interested in him if he can’t stand to hang out with him for a total of three minutes.

“Good observation,” he snarks back, because he can, but when he looks back to Lydia to signal  _ok, experiment failure? Time to go, maybe?_ she’s smiling with an expression like fond exasperation and he feels like he's missed something.

“Allison’s gone for the summer,” is what she actually says, shrugging. “And Scott’s busy with summer school. We figured we’d hang out for a bit.”

Derek winces, like the very idea leaves something sour in his mouth, and Stiles’ eyebrows are probably screaming something along the lines of  _abort, abort_ , because Lydia stops to send him a look of cutting disapproval while Derek grits out:

“So go to the beach. Watch a movie. I don’t have time to entertain you.”

“Oh hey,” Stiles replies, overbright. “Look who actually knows what fun is. Really, I’m impressed.”

“Why don’t you have the time,” Lydia asks, while Derek fixes Stiles with a sarcastic smirk. “Since we’re all allies now, and sharing vital information?”

Stiles bites down on a laugh at the look on Derek’s face then. He’s obviously swallowing down about five different sarcastic answers, and Stiles is kind of impressed that he’s already managed to pick up exactly how useless they’d be against Lydia.

“Nothing,” he grits finally, and Lydia hums, sounding pleased.

“Ok, good. Now I think it’s a little late today for a beach trip, and you don’t actually seem to have electricity in here, much less a laptop or TV, so I think we’ll have to table the movie as well. We’ll just hang out for a bit if you don’t mind.”

Stiles winces, because she’d left Derek the perfect opportunity to say how very much he obviously minds. Instead he just looks between the pair of them, lips parted, before he shakes his head and turns to stalk back to the nearest train car.

“Do whatever you want,” he mutters, and Lydia pulls out her phone, settling back into her seat.

“Planning on it.”

.-

Derek reappears a few minutes later, an old, well-worn looking book clenched in his hand. He casts a scowl Stiles’ way, like he’s daring him to comment.

So of course he has to.

“Doing a little light summer reading there, Derek? Some  _Fifty Shades_  to teach you how to be even more of a scowly stalker?”

“Maybe it would teach me how to gag you, so I could have some peace and quiet.”

Stiles stares at him, open-mouthed, too distracted by six different mental images competing for his dick’s attention to really appreciate that Derek understood a pop culture reference.

Lydia starts laughing, and when their attention flits to her she waves them off, offering: “Funny text.”

About a minute later a text of his own buzzes in, and he opens it up to find:

> _Bondage talk, really?_

And then:

> _You’re right, there’s NO way he’s into you_

He rolls his eyes, glances up to see Derek frowning over the ancient looking tome. And then, just because he’s bored, just because he can, he clears his throat, wraps his lips around the mostly-melted popsicle, and bobs his head down very slowly over the length of it.

Derek’s eyes had flitted up at the sound, and he watches Stiles’ head bob with an expression that could only be described as inscrutable. His tongue flicks out over his lips, and he might be thinking about anything from how he wants his own delicious cherry goodness to how much he would like to rip out Stiles’ tongue to stop his quiet slurping. Stiles drags his mouth off the treat, a flutter of anticipation building low in his gut, as Derek’s gaze rakes up slowly to land on Stiles’ own.

Derek’s lips part, and Stiles feels his next breath drag in a little shaky, and then Derek’s saying:

“Is there actually  _any_  reason you’re here?”

The moment shatters, and Stiles scowls down at his popsicle. A cold, crimson drop splashes onto his knuckle.

“Like Lydia said, she’s bored, I’m bored. Figured you might be bored, what with…” Waves his hand vaguely around the quiet room. Derek follows his gaze out with a slowly clenching jaw. “You know, since Jackson left,” he adds, because he figures that’s probably less of a sore spot than  _two of your betas ran off a few months ago and your other one seems to like my best friend better than you._

But then of course, doing triage on Derek is like stabbing a sharp pin into Lydia –- the J word has been unofficially off limits since he boarded his plane -- and when Stiles glances Lydia’s way apologetically, she’s poking at her phone with jabs that are a little more brutal than necessary. He takes a few steps over to lean gently into her shoulder, and some of the tension eases out of her stance at the silent apology.

Of course it only took those few seconds to completely lose Derek’s attention again, the next page of his book flipping loudly in the quiet space.

Stiles finishes his popsicle in bitter silence, licks the last few cherry drips off his fingers, and Lydia seems to take that as some kind of a signal to leave.

(If Stiles had known that he probably just would’ve bitten the damn thing to finish faster.)

Derek seems just as baffled when she stands up to go as he did when she swept in, even more so when she pauses at the foot of the stairwell and announces, “I’ll have Stiles give me your number. Keep Saturday free, I’ll text you with details.”

Stiles can’t really do anything but keep up with her, glancing back to Derek at the doorway with a half-baffled shrug.

“I don’t… yeah, you’ll get used to her,” he offers, and then he follows her out.

They make it halfway back to town, Stiles shifting restlessly in his seat the whole time, before he says: “So… we’re seeing Derek again?”

Lydia snorts.

“We are most definitely seeing Derek again.”

There’s a pleased sound in her tone that has him just this edge of jealous before she fixes him with a pleased look.

“And you are most  _definitely_  going to have your summer fling, Stiles.”

.-

Lydia seems confident that she got enough confirmation about Derek’s sexual orientation from a few scowly looks and an ice pop.

“He’s interested, trust me. He didn’t kick us out when he easily could have—“

“Because you  _scared_ him into submission. Or maybe he actually really is just lonely.” It’s hard to imagine someone like Derek being lonely, what with his chosen hobbies of lurking, brooding, and –- apparently –- reading, but stranger things have happened. And also: “And who’s to say he doesn’t like  _you_ , if anyone?”

That’s way more likely, in Stiles’ opinion. He can’t think of anyone who wouldn’t be at least a little bit into Lydia Martin. Except maybe Scott, but Scott’s bound by the bro code not to be drawn in by the charms of the people Stiles obsesses over.

(…Maybe that’s why Scott and Derek had such a hard time getting along, come to think about it.)

“It wasn’t  _my_  mouth he couldn’t stop staring at,” Lydia replies, seeming smug.

He finds his reflection in the car’s flipped-down sun visor: wide, brown eyes, hair that’s caught in an awkward stage, half-grown out from the winter’s buzz cut. His lips are strangely obvious on his face, red and swollen looking from food coloring and the cold.

He licks at them a little, shivers out some unnamable tension, and flips the visor back up.

“ _Yeah_ , because you had me sucking on a big, dripping popsicle. And  _oh my god_ don’t even go there, ok, I heard it.” He heard it, he  _saw_  it, he knows exactly where  _his_  brain had gone at the sight of his own mouth. That doesn’t mean Derek’s had, though. “He was probably just scared I was going to drip juices all over his musty, tetanus-riddled floor.” At her arched brow: “Yeah, ok, I heard that too.”

She lets him muddle in that for a few moments, until she pulls up next to his Jeep, still sitting in the café parking lot, and turns to give him a strangely soft look.

“I don’t like that you’re not confident in yourself, Stiles.”

He startles a little at that, brows furrowing. He’s heard himself described a  _lot_ of different ways over the years: loud, abrasive,  _incessant_ , annoying… Unconfident really hasn’t ever been one of them.

“Hey, no, that’s not… I mean, I just know my limitations, I don’t think that—“

She lifts a hand, cutting him off.

“I don’t like it, and I don’t like to think that I might have helped cause it. What I just saw in there? That was a  _ridiculous_ amount of sexual tension for a ten minute interaction, and probably the only reason you haven’t climbed each other like a tree already is because you’re both just too oblivious or caught up in your own issues to do something about it. So listen to me: Derek Hale is most  _definitely_ attracted to you.” She pauses, like she thinks he needs a second for that to settle in. He blinks, opens his mouth, and closes it again slowly when her brows lift, daring him to object. “He  _is_ attracted to you,” she repeats slowly, completely sure of her words. “We just need to get him to notice that.”

.-

Stiles is woken up at the ungodly hour of ten o’clock by his dad rapping on his bedroom door.

“You have a visitor,” he says, with a weight to his tone to suggest that he’s not sure, himself, what to make of it, “of the female persuasion?”

Stiles lifts his head from his pillow, wrinkling his nose.

“ _Female persuasion_ , seriously dad?’

“Just get up and dressed, kid. Lydia Martin’s waiting in your living room, and I’ve got to get to work.” He starts to leave, and then pauses. “I  _can_  go to work, can’t I?”

“Ugh, dad,  _yes_. I do not need a chaperone to hang out with Lydia.”

“You really don’t,” his dad says, like he’s really not sure what to think about  _that_. But then he’s shrugging, moving away back down the hall, and Stiles is dragging himself out of bed, pulling a clean (enough) t-shirt and shorts on, and stumbling down the stairs to find Lydia perched on his couch, quirking a brow at his disheveled state and ensemble.

“Ok, well that  _definitely_ isn’t going to do.”

He glances down, shrugs when he notices he’s wearing his slight stained “I Support Single Moms” t-shirt, and then looks back up at her long-suffering sigh.

“Oh, is this when you give me an epic makeover so I can be one of the popular kids?”

She rolls her eyes.

“Just… go find something without a slogan. Formfitting, if you have it. You have good shoulders, you should accentuate them.”

He blinks at her, because, “I… really? And also, why weren’t you noticing all of my awesome physical attributes back when it really mattered?”

“I’ve never said you were unappealing to look at, Stiles. There’s more to attraction than that.”

He could probably object to that, considering that’s pretty much exactly what a fling is about, right? Finding each other hot, getting together and getting away before you have to get to know the other person? Besides, he’s pretty sure he’d had a dream just last night that had been pretty exclusively focused on the feel of a certain alpha’s biceps under his hands and stubble scratching across his bared throat and that's _all_ physical, right? But he’s not exactly in a position to object when Lydia Martin tells him something, so he just shrugs and backtracks to the stairs, taking them back up two at a time and scooting past his dad, who stops to look after him with an all too familiar, baffled look.

.-

It turns out, a different t-shirt is the extent to Lydia’s makeover experience. She gives him a critical look and a nod when he comes back downstairs in a slightly threadbare blue tee (she’d wanted formfitting, and formfitting meant  _old_ ) and then bustles him out the door to go grab lunch.

All in all, Stiles feels a little bit cheated by Lydia’s lack of investment in the whole project.

“You know, Freddie Prinze Jr. would’ve had me halfway to prom queen by now,” he complains, pulling the door to the small diner open and waving her in. “And anyway, don’t you hate diner food? What are we doing he—hey… ok, look who’s…”

He trails off at the sight of Derek, and Stiles thinks maybe his dad had never actually woken him up after all because Derek’s dressed in a white tank top and loose basketball shorts, sitting in a booth halfway across the room.

There’s a smirk in Lydia’s voice as Stiles drinks in the sight (he’s never seen Derek in casual. He didn’t know Derek knew  _how_ to do casual but _holy god_  it’s a good look for him).

“I thought you might have a craving.”

He swallows around a whimper as Derek runs a hand through his hair, and Stiles realizes there’s just the faintest sheen of sweat on his arms, like he’d been out for a run before stopping here.

Or doing other strenuous things, maybe. Things Stiles is definitely  _not_ going to start thinking about in the middle of a family diner fifteen feet away from a  _werewolf_.

“I’m not even gonna ask how,” he murmurs, voice coming out too high, and Lydia tuts like it should be obvious.

“I have eyes everywhere,” she returns, and then waves off the smiling waiter who comes up to seat them. “I think we’ll be sitting with a friend, today.”

Derek finally seems to notice them at that, looking up from his newspaper –- Stiles bites his lip over a grin, because who  _actually_  reads the newspaper anymore? Derek such an actual old man sometimes –- and takes both of them in with a guarded expression as Lydia crosses the room and drops into the booth across from him, Stiles trailing a step behind.

“Are you following me?”

It would be a paranoid question if it weren’t actually true, and Stiles notes that Lydia doesn’t  _actually_  lie when she shrugs and says, “Stiles loves the curly fries here, don’t you Stiles?”

Derek’s attention slides to him, gaze flicking noticeably across Stiles’ chest and shoulders as Lydia shifts over, letting him drop down into the booth right across from the other man. He feels self-conscious under those eyes, the guarded look on Derek’s face revealing nothing, as usual. Is he wondering why Stiles is wearing what’s obviously a shirt from when he was twelve? Is he wondering why it smells like it hasn’t been touched in half a decade? Crap, does Stiles smell like  _mothballs_  to Derek’s werewolf nose right now?

Lydia nudges him under the table and he swallows hard, nodding.

“I… yeah, I mean, they’re kind of the best in town.”

“You came here at ten-thirty in the morning for curly fries?” Derek asks, skeptical. His mostly-eaten omelet seems to be judging Stiles, but Stiles can’t really care about that while Derek’s white tank is sticking to his chest, highlighting his pecs in a  _really_ distracting way. There’s an audible click from across the room, and a glance shows a girl he vaguely recognizes from school, dressed in a waitress uniform, leaning back against the counter and grinning into her phone.

Stiles suddenly has a much better idea of how Lydia knew Derek would be at the diner this morning.

He licks his lips, trying not to look too hard at the faint sheen of sweat along Derek’s collar.

“No time’s a bad time for curly fries, dude,” and orders a plate of them when the girl –- Bethany, Stiles thinks, and the name tag confirms it –- stops at the table, still smiling too widely at Derek, to take Stiles’ and Lydia’s orders.

Derek doesn’t question why the pair of them are sitting at his table, just seems to take it in stride as he finishes his omelet and goes back to his paper. Lydia turns to her phone, and Stiles tries not to stare too much at Derek, and is desperately glad when his fries get there, just to have something else to focus on.

He groans on the first bite because  _hell yes_ , he had not been lying before. These are far and away the best curly fries in town and he has gone way too long without having them for the sake of his father’s health.

…Which is obviously more important and all but still,  _curly fries_.

“Really?” Derek breaks into Stiles’ little moment of ecstasy, and Stiles looks up to see him staring at his mouth with an intensely frustrated look that  _really_  shouldn’t go straight to Stiles’ dick. He looks like he wants to  _bite_  Stiles, and not in the good way, and that would probably just be a terribly unpleasant experience for everyone involved.

(His dick seems unfortunately untroubled by that notion.)

He makes an effort to swallow his mouthful of fries and hums questioningly, licking the salt and ketchup from his lips. Derek looks down with a huff of breath that’s very nearly a growl.

“Just… do you and your french fries need to get a room?”

Sweet, potatoey goodness catches in his throat, and Stiles grabs for his water to keep from choking outright. Sputtering past the itch in his throat, blinking tears out of his eyes, he holds a finger up between them.

“Ok, one:  _curly_  fries, man. They are a superior food group, give them the respect they deserve. And second, did you seriously just take a dig at me with a middle school insult?”

“I don’t know,” Lydia cuts in mildly, and Stiles can already tell by her tone that she’s going to be completely unhelpful. “You were making some pretty pornographic noises there, don’t you think, Derek?”

Derek doesn’t answer, though his neck looks flushed as he ducks his head to focus on the next article.

It’s probably the heat.

Stiles shoots Lydia a pleading look and she responds with an eyeroll, reaching over her garden salad to snag a fry.

“So, I was going to text you but since we ran into each other I might as well tell you in person. Tomorrow we’ll be leaving for the beach at no later than ten, I do not want to hit highway traffic. We’ll be taking Stiles’ and my cars. Scott will be coming, and of course Isaac’s also invited.”

Stiles takes a second to gape at Lydia, and then back at Derek because there’s no way in hell Derek Hale, big bad alpha of Beacon Hills, is just going to agree to being dragged along to the  _beach_  of all places. Fun in the sun and tall, dark, and broody don’t exactly go together.

Derek looks like he has no idea what to make of the declaration, but then he looks at Stiles and away, letting out a quiet sigh, and just grunts: “I’ll take my own car.”

Stiles isn’t even sure why he’s still doubting Lydia at all at this point.

.-

“This is a  _terrible_ plan, just so you’re aware.” Since Isaac had texted Scott to confirm -– and then reconfirm, and confirm  _one final time_  as they were pulling onto the road this morning –- that he would be driving with Derek and meeting them at the beach, Lydia had decided to forgo taking her own car and is now seated in the passenger seat of Stiles’ Jeep (if only Stiles of three months ago could see him now, he thinks with a hint of wistfulness). Scott’s laid out in the back seat, catching up on the precious sleep they’d all missed by meeting Lydia’s “on the road by ten AM” deadline.

It’s an hour’s drive to the nearest beach, which has given Stiles about fifty-three minutes, so far, to agonize over Lydia’s latest scheme.

“I mean, I think what you’ve failed to take into account here is that, while the beach might be a great place for  _you_ to show off all of your… everything, all it really does for me is pit my pale, scrawny -– though apparently strong-shouldered -– self up against a thousand other shirtless, probably tanned, muscled, and gorgeous people.”

“”You’re not scrawny,” Scott, ever the world’s best bro, cuts out of his doze to assure him from the back seat.

Stiles snorts.

“Thanks, man.” He catches Lydia’s judging expression and lifts a hand, warding off any arguments. “Hey, you can’t be mad at me here, I said the shoulder thing. And it cannot be argued that I’m pale.”

“I don’t recall  _you_ having a problem with pale,” she says mildly, and Stiles nearly misses his exit gaping at her because…

“No, nuh uh, we are in no way comparable.”

Lydia is pale and  _perfect_ , he is pale and, well… Stiles.

He’s not battling low self-esteem here, alright? He’s just got a healthy understanding of where he stands in the looks department compared to… well, basically everyone else he knows. It’s not his fault that his social circle of the past six months has happened to consist of a bunch of werewolves and the two most beautiful girls at school.

He manages to veer into the exit lane at the last second, very nearly clipping what he’s terrified for a few seconds might be Derek’s Camaro. A second glance shows that it’s not though, just some old Impala.

That’s ok then.

“Wait, what are we talking about?” Scott, dragged back into wakefulness by the fast swerve of the car, is sitting up drowsily, leaning between the seats and scrubbing his hand over his face.

Stiles would tell him he’s working too hard in summer school, but he knows it’s his friend’s primary method to escape Pining Over Allison land, so he doesn’t push it. Also, he’s actually kind of proud of the guy for working to bring his grades up like this.

Stiles turns carefully off the back road leading toward beach parking, and sighs.

“Lydia promised to find me some summer lovin’ this year, and picked pretty much the worst way humanly possible to get me any.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Lydia says, all blasé innocence. Stiles doubts that her heartbeat so much as stutters. “I just thought it might be nice for us and Derek and Isaac to get to know each other a little better in a sunny, stress free environment. There’s a spot,” she adds, before he can call her out on her blatant lying.

He follows her direction toward the open spot, careful not to hit any of the bikini-clad pedestrians that don’t so much as glance at the oncoming Jeep as they stroll through the lot. (Although… that _would_  help narrow down the competition for certain werewolves’ attentions.)

“I burn  _really_ easily, Lydia. It’s not pretty. I  _peel_.”

Lydia doesn’t bother to grace him with so much as a moment of mock sympathy, sliding out of the Jeep the second it stops, tossing her long braid back over her shoulder as the turns to smile back at him.

“Better find someone to help you with the sunscreen, then.”

“I  _actually_ hate you!” he calls after her.

She doesn’t seem particularly concerned.

.-

Derek actually shows up, which Stiles had still honestly been doubting despite Isaac’s assurances. Stiles is about eighty percent sure that he wouldn’t have come if Isaac hadn’t been so obviously eager to, and the look on the taller teen’s face when he stares out at the ocean makes Stiles wonder when the last time he’d been on a beach trip was.

If he’d ever had one.

He basically tackles Scott into a race for the water the second they see each other, which leaves Lydia, Stiles, and a startlingly swimsuit-clad Derek (simple black trunks, less surprising) behind to lug their blankets, chairs, ridiculously oversized umbrella (“you’re not the only one who burns easily, Stiles”), and drink cooler out onto the sand.

Derek stares after the other two wolves for a few seconds, looking for all the world like he’s not sure how his life decisions had managed to bring him here, but when he finally looks back, Stiles would like to think his gaze lingers a little on Stiles’ bare chest.

(Really hopes it’s not just because of the sunlight reflecting distractingly off of his pasty white skin.)

Stiles swallows, lifts up the cooler, and thrusts it into Derek’s arms.

“All right, big guy. Time to earn your keep.”

.-

“Really, nice,” Stiles grumbles for the third time, his flip-flops kicking up hot sand as he plods across the beach. In the distance, Scott tackles a hesitant looking Isaac into the water and they both come up laughing. “Leave the two humans to carry stuff while you two frolic off in the waves. Great best friending, there.”

Derek, four paces ahead and loaded up with the cooler, chairs, and blankets, shoots a dirty look back at him and the umbrella. Lydia keeps pace beside him, her beach bag slung over one shoulder.

Stiles arches a brow.

“Oh what, is that too heavy for the big bad alpha?”

“ _I_  wasn’t the one complaining,” Derek shoots back.

Stiles rolls his eyes, dodging a pair of running kids, very nearly overbalancing the umbrella, and deciding that this spot is as good a one as any to stab the pole straight into the ground, claiming their camp.

“It’s the  _principle_ , Derek.”

He wonders vaguely, as they spread out the blanket and set a trio of chairs up around the edges (Derek and Isaac hadn’t brought any along with them) whether he should be trying to be nicer to Derek, or maybe flirting? Lydia hadn’t really given him anything in the way of pointers beyond “he likes your mouth” and “you have nice shoulders” and while those are definite confidence boosters (especially coming from  _Lydia Martin_ , of all people), they don’t really give him much to go on as far as the whole “seduction tactics” thing goes.

He should probably be less surprised when Lydia digs a spare bottle of sunscreen out of her oversized beach bag and tosses it to Derek before settling down in one of the beach chairs with her own.

Derek looks at it like he’s not sure what she wants him to do with it (and mustn’t that be nice, being a werewolf who doesn’t ever have to worry about sun damage?) until she waves her hand back to where Stiles is standing, open-mouthed, watching the proceedings.

“Help Stiles get that on the places he can’t reach, will you? Apparently he has very sensitive skin.”

She says it casually enough, but it’s enough to have Stiles flushing when he risks another glance at Derek, who seems even more at a loss for what to do with himself than he had before she’d spoken. He shifts the bottle between his hands, gaze scanning over Stiles’ bare chest and Stiles almost wishes that he’d decided to bring one of his beach shirts with him after all. He can just imagine what Derek’s seeing – his too-pale, skinny, mole-spotted chest that he’d probably think twice about touching with a ten foot pole, much less getting his hands all up on.

“It’s cool,” Stiles says, fast. “I can do it myself.”

Derek swallows, risks a quick glance over at the utterly indifferent looking Lydia like he’s embarrassed, before shaking his head.

“No, I… I can—“

“What’s going on, guys?” And then Scott’s back suddenly, grinning and clapping a sopping wet hand to Stiles’ shoulder while Isaac trails up a step behind him, looking like a pleased but wet puppy. Scott spots the bottle in Derek’s hand and makes a small sound, grabbing it. “Oh man, Stiles, it’s so bright today. You gotta let me get your back so this doesn’t turn into the Lake Trip of ’09 all over again. That was  _brutal._ ”

.-

Derek doesn’t pay the slightest bit of attention when Scott spreads the lotion all over Stiles’ shoulders and back.

Stiles  _does_  catch him watching with some serious intensity about five minutes later, though, when Stiles agrees to put sunscreen on Lydia.

Stiles can’t exactly blame him, but the idea of Derek noticing Lydia (of them noticing  _each other_ , of them realizing that their impossible level of attractiveness means they’re probably destined to get together, and deciding to have a hot summer fling with each other and leave him in the dust) has him burrowing his feet into the sand at the edge of their beach blanket and scowling down at them for a solid five minutes until Scott positively  _frolics_ back into view and promptly challenges Stiles and Derek to a volleyball game.

“Some girls up the beach have a net set up. They said they didn’t want to play right now but we were free to use it. Isaac’s over there talking to them right now.”

Lydia waves off Scott’s offer to have her join in, and Stiles more or less expects Derek to do the same. But Derek’s already pushing himself to his feet, arching a brow back at Stiles and asking “coming?” Stiles isn’t sure where exactly this sudden joining in attitude had sprung from but he’s not going to question it, pushing himself to his feet and scrambling after.

“Only if you’re ready to be destroyed, Hale.”

.-

They divide up into teams of two: Derek and Isaac versus Scott and Stiles.

There had been an awkward moment when Isaac suggested he and Scott should play together – “you know, to divide the skill levels up more equally” – but Stiles had just lifted a brow and asked if Derek sucked at volleyball then, and that had been enough to have Derek hauling Isaac over to the far side of the net and growling at Scott to serve.

And of course Derek would be the kind of person to treat a beach volleyball game like a battle for the future of the planet. He plays with a brutal focus, scowling at each lost point, grinning fiercely with every successful spike. He’s focused on proving something to Scott, as per usual, which is probably why he’s four points behind before he realizes Stiles is the bigger threat here.

Because volleyball is  _Stiles’ sport_ , ok? He is in the zone here. He’s got long limbs and he’s just lanky enough to be fast on his feet, even in the sand, and the look on Derek’s face when he finally realizes what he’s dealing with has him almost dancing, bouncing in the sand and waggling his brows with a grin.

“That’s right, Derek. You might be the big bad wolf back in Beacon Hills, but out here on the beach? I’m the alpha.”

There’s probably something wrong with him because when Derek growls, Stiles bares his teeth right back at him. Getting under a ridiculously dangerous supernatural being’s skin shouldn’t be so damn hot, but Stiles kind of gets lost in Derek’s challenging expression for a minute there. Isaac's next serve hits the sand right at his feet.

.-

They go toe to toe for something close to an hour once Derek’s focus shifts to Stiles. Derek obviously has the unnatural strength and speed thing going on, but Stiles plays smart. He watches Derek, gets a read on his body language. Watches him start to move forward or back and sends the ball spiking to the opposite corner of the net.

Scott and Isaac get bored after about thirty minutes and wander back to the water, but Derek’s playing like it’ll cost him everything to lose and Stiles isn’t going to give him an inch, and their fifteen point game drags on until they’re well over fifty.

A couple of the girls start making noises about wanting their net back, the others shushing them quickly because – and even Stiles can hear them whispering – “are you seriously going to give up  _that_ view?”

Stiles has to admit it is a  _ridiculously_  nice view.

In fact, the view is the reason he ends up losing when, at 54-55, halfway through a volley, Derek decides to brush his sandy hand off on his swim trunks, causing them to ride lower and reveal a very generous inch of dark hair trailing down, out of view. Stiles falters, mouth  _literally_  watering, and completely misses a painfully easy return from Derek.

Derek’s victorious grin is nothing short of bloodthirsty, and Stiles has to fight three times to drag his gaze away from the trail of dark hair, before turning away with a grumbled comment about needing to cool off in the water.

.-

It’s nearly sunset before Derek makes his way to the water. Stiles and Scott had been busy constructing the ultimate sand fortress while Isaac arranged a small army of seashells (“as guards for the castle,” he’d explained with an tone that dared anyone to argue, though Stiles is still pretty sure that this is actually Isaac’s first beach trip, and he just wanted the excuse to go collecting shells). Lydia had been lounging in her beach chair, reading (her beach book of choice was something with quantum physics in the title that Stiles wasn’t even going to  _attempt_ wrapping his mind around) and it’s only when she looks up with a pointed hum and nudges Stiles’ back with her toe that he notices Derek’s slipped away.

“Stiles,” Lydia says, tone just that edge of casual that Stiles is starting to associate with her particular brand of scheming. “I think you should go collect more water for the moat, don’t you?”

Stiles squints at her, and then out at the ocean. Catches sight of Derek standing about half a foot into the water, staring out at the sunset sky. He looks almost small against the stretch of the ocean, and Stiles is hit by a wild, impossible urge to just walk up behind him and wrap his arms around his waist.

Anchor him.

 _Crap_.

This is way, way more than a crush, than an urge for a summer fling. He’s really not even sure how that happened.

He licks his lips, standing slowly.

“I… yeah, good idea.”

He barely registers Scott’s puzzled “but you don’t even have a bucket” as he moves up the beach, toward the shadows shifting over strong muscles and the dark tattoo spiralling across Derek’s back.

Derek tilts his head to acknowledge Stiles when he gets close, but doesn’t look away from the water. There’s a strange sort of tension in his shoulders that Stiles knows he’s seen there before – not his “ready for a battle” tension (which might be expected. Of all the people Stiles knows, Derek Hale is the one he would realistically expect to volunteer to battle the ocean). No, this is something more fragile. Like he’s trying to bluff that he’s a stone wall, when he’s actually glass, one sharp nudge away from shattering.

The current sweeps up over Stiles’ ankles before retreating down the beach. Stiles moves forward with it, giving up the view of Derek’s back in exchange for a sharp jaw and stubble, and a strangely lost expression.

Stiles honestly has no idea what to do with any of that. Shifts his gaze from Derek to the water, and then back.

“So… you own a bathing suit.”

Derek offers him a mild look, his gaze sliding down Stiles’ chest to his own orange trunks. The lost look is gone and Stiles feels a tightness in his chest drain straight out of it, even as Derek’s brows arch mockingly instead.

“What did expect me to show up in?”

Stiles shrugs, ducks to pick up a shell, and runs his finger along the smooth inside.

“A leather jacket and a scowl? I dunno, man. You just never seemed like the beaching type.”

Derek scans over his face for a few seconds, critically, before he squints back out over the water. Sunset is painting it orange and gold in all the best ways, the light reflecting out and over the angles of Derek’s face.

“I like the beach,” he murmurs, and then winces slightly. Stiles lets out a snort, sends the shell skimming out into the ocean.

“It hurt to admit you actually like something?”

Derek scuffs his foot along the damp sand, watches the next wave roll in and wash the marks away.

“Why did you invite me today?”

Speaking of liking things you can’t admit to…

Lydia would probably smack Stiles upside the head for choking on such an easy opening, but when he opens his mouth what comes out is:

“Scott likes Isaac, you know? I think it’s good for him to have someone else around, with Allison being away and all.” And it’s probably the light casting shadows or something, but Derek kind of looks like a kicked puppy for a second, like that was the answer he’d been expecting, but not the one he’d been hoping for. He nods a little while Stiles watches helplessly, looking away up the beach toward the rest of their group.

The fortress is impressive even from this distance. Stiles wonders how long it’ll take for the wind to blow it away.

What is he thinking; some dumb kid will probably come by and stomp on it.

“I think it’s good for Isaac too,” Derek says, “to have company.”

Stiles feels like a complete dick, but then, how could he have possibly anticipated that Derek actually  _wanted_ to be included? How could anyone have anticipated that?

Except, remembering the tension in Derek’s shoulders when he’d walked up, he decides probably should have.

“And, I mean,” he tries, and he’s going to admit it this time, he seriously is. But then again… how unfair of him would that be? To tell Derek how he feels when Derek is just looking for company? To make him feel like he has to return Stiles’ feelings just to have some place in the group? Holy crap, that would be kind of awful of him, honestly. He redirects last second, scrubbing at his neck. “Lydia, you know? She thought we should all get to know each other better, like a team bonding thing.”

That sounds nice, right? Teams are good, friendly, inclusive. Derek had always been all about the pack bonds and brotherhood…

“And you?” Derek asks instead, moving so he’s facing away from the water, looking Stiles right in the eye. He’s backlit by the sunset and close enough to touch and Stiles kind of really,  _desperately_  wants to reach out and do just that, screw morality and self-consciousness, because three seconds of Derek’s mouth against his would be worth whatever fallout comes afterward. But then Derek’s adding, “You always do what Lydia tells you to do?”

Stiles’ lips quirk at that.

“I think anyone with a brain knows to do what Lydia tells them to.”

“Jackson was always running off the second Lydia texted,” Derek notes, fixing Stiles with a weighty look that has him shifting, reaching up to scrub at an itch at the side of his neck. “I think he might have only come to me for training in the first place because Lydia told him to.”

“Lydia’s always got the best ideas,” Stiles agrees. And Lydia  _was_ the person who’d told Stiles to go for Derek, and he’s being a complete wuss about everything, so he swallows his nerves and adds, “I mean, she was right to invite you today.”

A brow arches on Derek’s shadowed face.

“Was she?”

Stiles chews at his lip, holds his gaze.

“I mean… yeah. It was nice. Having you here. I mean, who else would’ve hauled our crap onto the beach when Scott and Isaac ditched us?”

Derek huffs a quiet laugh.

“Right, glad I could be helpful.”

“You’re good for the manual labor, that’s all I’m saying.”

Derek smirks, drags a toe along the wet sand again, thoughtfully.

“I had a younger sister, Cora,” he offers after a moment. “She would’ve been about your age.”

Stiles remembers her, vaguely. Remembers the whole grade being shocked by the tragedy of the Hale fire, people who had been friends with Cora crying in the halls for days afterward.

Derek lets out a quiet sigh, turning, looking back out over the water.

“She used to love the beach. And I don’t mean the sand or swimming or everything kids usually love when they come here. She was just… fascinated by the waves.”

Stiles can picture it, though his mental image of Cora has faded with time and unfamiliarity. He imagines a stern looking little girl with Derek’s sharp bone structure and coloring perched at the edge of the water, staring out at the water.

“Because the currents are tied to the moon?” Stiles guesses. He’s not sure what had made Derek decide to voice this to him, but he knows what it is to be hit by the memory of your loved ones – painful and happy and cathartic all at once. He needs Derek to know it’s ok to think about it. Ok to talk about it.

Derek’s head ducks, lips quirking, and for a second Stiles sees an actual smile touch his lips.

“She said that the waves and the moon taught the same lesson, but the current doesn’t make you wait an entire month to get its point across.”

Stiles snorts at that, and Derek’s smile seems to twitch wider at his laughter. Stiles’ chest feels warm suddenly in a way that has nothing to do with the dipping sunlight.

“Laura would drag me to the beach a lot after the fire. At least once a month, no matter how cold it got. She’d drive us out to Jones beach or Jersey and just sit there, watching at the waves. I think maybe they helped steady her, after she became alpha.” He pauses then, looking down at the newest wave lapping across his feet, like he’s waiting to feel some inspiration of his own from the water.

“What was the lesson?” Stiles asks, after a few seconds. Derek looks up, like he’s measuring Stiles’ worthiness to hear his sister’s philosophy, and he must see something worthwhile in Stiles’ face because then that smile’s touching his lips again.

“Cora never really explained it. She was ten years old, I’m not sure how deep that train of thought even went. But… afterward, Laura would say that the currents were like life – it might strip everything away from you, but it’ll give back eventually in kind.”

Stiles thinks about Derek, how he’d had his family, his sister, and now three of his betas torn away from him. Thinks about his own mom’s death, and the makeshift family he has now with his dad and Scott and Melissa McCall, and how it’s not the same and it’s definitely not better, but still perfect in its own way. The next wave washes up over his ankles, little bits of shell and seaweed bumping his foot as it goes.

“I think she was right,” he offers.

And when lifts his gaze again the look in Derek’s eyes  _catches_  him.

They hang in that moment, locked up in each other’s gazes, and Stiles hasn’t actually ever seen a look that soft on Derek’s face before. It’s doing dangerous, restless, fluttery things to him that leave him feeling breathless even before Derek shifts in and lifts his hand slowly to brush along Stiles’ throat.

 _Ohgod,_ Derek is _touching_  him.

Stiles’  _jolts_ , breath shuddering in sharply, and then a faint moan is escaping his throat as a low-burning ache he hadn’t consciously noticed starts being drawn right out of his skin. There’s no way such a simple touch should feel so damn good but he doesn’t even care. His eyes flutter shut, savoring the feeling, the way Derek thumbs, firm and gentle, up the side of his throat to his hairline.

It isn’t natural. It’s  _supernatural_ , it’s…

“Oh god, is this that werewolf pain drain thing?” Because it is  _really_  nice, like insanely nice. Almost nice enough to override the feel of Derek’s fingers along his collar, warm and strong and surprisingly less calloused than Stiles would have guessed from Derek’s general, rugged  _everything_.

Derek must have moved in closer while Stiles’ eyes were closed, because when he blinks them open he gets hit with a face full of Derek, his multihued eyes fixed along Stiles’ throat and his jaw clenched with something Stiles would probably have to define as “constipated concern.”

“Scott must have missed a spot with the sunscreen,” he murmurs, thumb tracing over a patch of particularly itchy skin right under his jaw.

Stiles feels barely coherent at the closeness, wonders if he can blame Derek’s werewolf mojo clouding up his brain with happy endorphins for the way he bares his throat to Derek’s touch and murmurs, “I guess next time you’ll have to put the lotion on me, huh?”

Derek’s gaze snaps up to his, and in an instant Stiles actually believes everything Lydia has said about Derek wanting him.

About being  _desirable_. 

Because Derek’s looking at him like he is. Looking at him like he wants to eat Stiles up in all the  _good_  ways for once, and when Stiles licks his lips, very deliberately, Derek echoes the motion like he can’t even help it.

They’re on a beach at sunset and this is every corny summer beach cliché in the book and Stiles is  _beyond_ ready to start his epic summer romance with Derek like  _yesterday_.

Not a fling, not satisfying a craving. He wants  _Derek_. Wants his stupid broody eyebrows and his ridiculous competitiveness and his corny ocean metaphors, and his ability to get under Stiles’ skin in  _every_ way possible without even trying.

Derek’s eyes have gone to Stiles’ mouth and Stiles shifts in a little, feeling brave and wildly powerful and  _wanted_ —

And then Derek’s stepping away, breathing fast and eyes averted, muttering “You should put some aloe on that. It won’t sting for a while but you’ll still need help to heal.” And then he’s retreating – practically running – back toward their little camp of beach blankets.

Stiles stares after him, open mouthed.

And Derek is completely wrong. Stiles is already feeling the sting.

.-

Stiles isn’t sure what exactly to take away from the day at the beach.

At least he knows Lydia hadn’t been imagining the attraction there, though Stiles isn’t honestly sure if “attracted but clearly not wanting to do anything about it” is really a step up from “not actually attracted at all.”

Maybe he should have just let Lydia set him up with some random guys like she’d wanted at first. At least then the sting of rejection wouldn’t stay with him like this.

Because the beach trip had been a resounding success, it turns out, in every way  _except_ the one it had been designed for in the first place. Lydia goes shopping with Isaac on Tuesday. On Wednesday Scott mentions Derek’s name without the usual furrowed brow of frustration. And when Lydia drags Stiles back over to the rail yard on Friday, she and Derek fall into a debate over the benefits of finding an  _actual_  home for him and Isaac as though it’s one they’ve been having all week.

They all get together on Friday night at Lydia’s place for dinner and a movie (her parents are away on a cruise… or possibly separate cruises? Stiles isn’t quite sure about the details on that) so there’s no worry about them raising a brow at the former felon and runaway – and, well,  _Stiles_  – hanging out with their daughter). And it’s  _fun_. Stiles has never really been part of a group before, him and Scott more or less forging their own path from elementary school all the way up to Allison. And even though Isaac’s really only there for Scott, and Stiles isn’t honestly sure  _why_ Derek’s there, it’s strangely nice to have more than one person in the room, talking over movies and arguing takeout options.

Derek doesn’t do anything to acknowledge the almost-moment at the beach, beyond maybe giving Stiles’ a slightly wider berth than usual, choosing to sit on the floor in front of the couch instead of on it during the movie, after Stiles sits down in the middle next to Lydia. It turns out Derek’s an  _excellent_ heckler too, picking apart their chosen film (“ _Twilight_  has something for everyone,” Lydia had argued in a tone that brooked no argument. “Attractive men and women, action, romance, and enough supernatural inaccuracies to keep all of us entertained”) with a level of sharp-minded snark Stiles actually has to push himself to keep up with. 

Stiles actually misses more than half the dialogue because he’s too busy leaning forward, sharing smirking jibes with Derek, and the whole evening would be just about perfect until Stiles remembers that the reason he has to lean forward is because Derek had refused to sit on the couch next to him.

To add injury to insult, Stiles’ neck  _does_  start peeling, going ugly red and irritated about three days after the beach trip, and staying that way for over a week. Stiles decidedly  _doesn’t_  picture Derek’s fingers thumbing across his throat when he rubs aloe into it at night.

.-

“I’m not sure if Derek’s actually going to be in a seducable mood at a bonfire,” Stiles notes, flopping back onto Lydia’s bed. “Which takes place  _on his property_ , no less.”

It’s two weeks to the day after the debatably successful beach trip, and Lydia had sent out a mass text that afternoon announcing the annual summer bonfire in the preserve (debatably legal… well, ok, definitely illegal, but it’s a yearly tradition amongst teens throughout Beacon County, and tradition has to count for something, right?)

She’d sent out a second, personal text to Stiles afterward, requesting his presence at her house an hour before the event so he could help her decide on an outfit.

 _(“I’m not surrendering to stereotypes, and even if I wanted to I’m not sure there actually_ is  _a stereotype about bisexual fashion sensibilities. But I need a second set of eyes and while Allison’s gone… well, I need someone to stand in.”_ )

She’s been coming in and out of her closet for the past ten minutes though, not giving him so much as a glance for approval as she moves from a dress to a shirt and skirt combo, and then several combinations of shirts with slightly differing shorts.

“I’m not sure Derek’s even coming,” she answers, swooping out in a high-waisted skirt and tall boots, frowning the second she gets a good look at herself in the mirror. “He never messaged me back. But your insecurity and his ridiculous amount of issues are going to have to take the back burner for a night, because we are more than four weeks into this summer and I have not made out with a single boy so far.”

Stiles leans up slowly to look at her. He’s pretty sure that Lydia had latched so firmly onto the Set Stiles Up project because she hadn’t been quite as ready as she’d thought to let go of Jackson.

She sees his look, frowns.

“ _Don’t_  even ask me if I’m sure, Stiles. I am more than ready to cleanse my palate of Jackson Whittemore, you understand me?”

It’s the first time she’s said his name since he left. Stiles nods, offering her a smile that she rolls her eyes at before returning in the mirror.

“I think this one will do,” she says, a few seconds later, and Stiles nods, dropping back down onto the bed settling in for another half hour of supportive waiting.

“It’s a good look for you, Lyds.”

.-

He’s at the bonfire for over an hour before he catches sight of Derek, clad in his old, too-big leather jacket despite the summer heat, perched on a fallen log just outside the dancing light of the fire.

Lydia’s off chatting up a guy Stiles thinks is probably home from college for the summer, all broad shoulders and perfectly tousled hair, built like he’s probably a quarterback. Scott has managed to surround himself with a circle of dreamy-eyed looking girls, recounting the (censored-for-human-ears) tragedy of his and Allison’s epic love.

And Stiles is three beers in and has realized that bonfires are way less interesting than you think they’d be after about five minutes of staring, and thinks nothing of dropping down onto the log next to Derek, sitting close enough that their legs touch.

“Hey, check out the brooding and the leather. Now there’s the grumpywolf I know and… know.”

Derek directs a decidedly mocking snort his way, which Stiles thinks is completely unfair.  _Stiles_ isn’t the one all dressed up in leather in summertime.

“Aren’t you hot?” he asks, tugging at the sleeve, and flushes when he realizes the words came out all wrong, way less of a question and more of a pointed come on.

(Which… ok, might not actually be  _wrong_  because it’s exactly what Stiles had been thinking, but…)

Derek looks pointedly at Stiles’ hand on his sleeve, and Stiles laughs out loud because they’ve been  _exactly_  here before, haven’t they?

He doesn’t take his hand off.

“Where’s Lydia?” Derek asks after a moment, and Stiles squints at the question and then away into the crowd, lifting his free hand to wave vaguely into the mass of bodies.

“Chatting.” The  _thought_  comes back then, though, the one that makes too much sense, the one that always seems to float out from some dark corner of his mind whenever Derek’s gaze lingers on Lydia or whenever he acquiesces to one of her “requests” without so much as the token argument he would offer anyone else. “Why are you always so interested in Lydia?”

Derek’s brows lift at that, and they seem genuinely surprised at the question. Derek’s brows are good like that, expressive. Stiles kind of wants to thank them for occasionally clueing him in to what Derek is thinking.

It’s not like the rest of him tells Stiles anything.

“I’m not interested in Lydia,” Derek’s mouth says, and Stiles kind of grins at it for a second, because it’s nice of it to be so surprisingly forthcoming.

“Oh,” he tells Derek’s mouth. “That’s really, really good. If you did, that would be awkward.”

Derek’s mouth does something funny then, tightens up into something stressed or sad or bitter. Stiles doesn’t like that, especially not when his own mouth is smiling, when he feels decidedly lighter with that constant, nagging fear finally lifted off of his chest.

“Yeah,” Derek’s mouth says, after a moment. “ _That_  would be awkward.”

They sit in quiet for a little bit, watching the flames, and Stiles wonders if the bonfire reminds Derek of bad times and that’s why his mouth had gone tight, or if he’d come tonight because it reminds him of good times, of his own high school bonfire parties, before everything had fallen apart.

He thinks about asking, but then he thinks about going to find another drink, and then he gets caught up in a conversation with Danny Mahealani about future plans, and how Danny’s thinking about applying for a foreign exchange program in Europe next spring.

“If you guys think you can survive a whole season of lacrosse without me  _and_ Jackson,” he says good naturedly, and Stiles tells him by all means to go.

“That might give me a chance to actually get off the bench.”

Danny’s returning remark is cut off by an angry shout.

“What the  _hell_ , man?”

Stiles swivels toward the source of the sound and catches sight of Derek about a quarter way around the bonfire, standing in front of Lydia and aiming his best “if looks could kill” glare at Probably-College-Quarterback.

“What the hell?” Stiles echoes, shoves his cup at a startled looking Danny, and makes his way over to the fuming trio. “Hey, am I failing in wingman duties? Is this guy bothering you, Lyds?”

Lydia looks every bit as pissed off as Derek does, but she’s not glaring at Quarterback.

“ _This_ guy is bothering me,” she replies, hand on her hip and scowl fixed firmly on Derek. “What the hell are you doing?”

Derek’s shoulders are still tense, but his expression goes from angry to almost nervous as he notices Stiles’ presence.

“Stiles, I’m sorry.”

Stiles nods at the apology. His brain is moving slowly, and he’s probably missing something painfully obvious, but…

“Thanks man, but um… You should probably apologizing to Lydia or Quarterback here—“

“Chip,” the guy puts in helpfully.

“Chip,” Stiles amends, and then casts Lydia a look. “ _Chip_?”

She rolls her eyes, shrugging.

Derek’s going from uncomfortable to looking straight up confused, and he looks between all three of them before saying, “I saw Lydia kiss this guy—“

“I thought you said you weren’t into Lydia,” Stiles cuts in, feeling wounded, and Derek’s brows furrow further.

“I’m not,” he says, slow. And then… “Stiles, _you_  don’t mind—”

“Oh my god,” Lydia cuts in, like she suddenly gets something important, and Stiles is glad  _one_ of them does, because Derek’s eyebrows are being decidedly unforthcoming and poor Chip is looking like he wishes he’d stuck to hitting on college co-eds, and “Derek Hale, I am  _not_ dating Stiles.”

Derek looks really shocked at that. Like,  _comically_ shocked and Stiles hopes that someone else has their camera out to capture it, because Stiles is too busy trying to wrap his head around what Derek had apparently thought was going on to properly appreciate it right now.

It takes a second for Stiles to realize that the little shocked whine he hears is coming up his throat and not Derek’s.

“Wait. You thought we… how could you… seriously,  _why_  would you…”

Derek gapes soundlessly before stepping toward Stiles, looking almost accusing.

“You show up  _everywhere_  together. You’re always in each other’s space, you’re always doing everything she says—“

“ _Everyone_ does everything Lydia says.”

“All I heard about all spring, from Scott, from  _Erica_ , was how much you were in love with Lydia Martin.”

Stiles stalls at that because… yeah, ok, that possibly looks incriminating.

He licks his lips, gaze flitting over to Lydia. Her strawberry blonde hair reflecting golden in the firelight, her pursed lips and perfect skin.

Derek had been jealous of  _her._ Over Stiles.

“You… seriously think I could get Lydia Martin?”

Derek lets out a tired sigh at that, looking away.

“Stiles, you could probably get anyone.”

And that’s… wow. That’s.

He blinks a few times, steps forward until he’s close enough to play his hand along the edge of Derek’s jacket.

“Could I get you?”

Derek turns to look at him, brows lifted. Wary. Hopeful?

“Dude,” Stiles breathes, and he brings his other hand up, runs a finger lightly across Derek’s unflinching brow. “I stopped wanting Lydia  _way_ back. When I realized I was never going to have with her what she had with Jackson.” Derek parts his lips, shakes his head a little. And Stiles doesn’t want him shaking his head, doesn’t want him overthinking or talking his way out of this. So he leans in a little closer, takes in the firelight reflected in Derek’s ever-shifting eyes. “I stopped wanting her when I realized how much I wanted you.”

Derek searches his face like he’s trying to find a lie somewhere in him. Like he’s not sure how to just take a good thing when the world offers it out to him. Stiles slides his hand down to cup Derek’s nape, holds his gaze, and waits.

Waits while Derek draws in a steadying breath. While the first hints of a smile start creeping, hesitant and open and  _beautiful_ , over his face. While he lifts a hand and catches Stiles’ hip like he’s still not entirely sure he’s allowed to.

“Hey,” Stiles says, slow and serious, and Derek hums questioningly. “I’m gonna kiss you right now. But then I think we really need to compose a musical number to honor the occasion. I’m thinking along the lines of “Summer Lovin” with a little _Dirty Dancing_ thrown in, because we need this little romance of ours somewhere above the PG level like yesterd—“

Derek cuts him off just like he’d been hoping he would, with a kiss that starts out firm and goes to hungry fast. Derek kisses like he does everything: aggressive, dominating, and with an underlying touch of wounded vulnerability that has Stiles wanting to kiss his cheeks and cradle him close almost as much as he wants to climb him right here in front of everyone.

…They really need to get out of here.

(Derek  _really_ needs to get a place with a real bed.)

Stiles pulls back, breathless, rests his forehead against Derek’s while he drags a few fast gulps of air. And then they’re grinning at each other, kiss-dazed and wondering, as Stiles pulls Derek gently away from the heat of the bonfire.

“Who’s Jackson?” Chip asks, in the distance. Lydia sighs.

And Stiles will absolutely be playing wingman for her all summer. He owes her more than he ever could have expected. He is going to help her get as many flings as she can possibly ask for.

But not tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from this quote:
> 
> "Because there's nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline, no matter how many times it's sent away." - Sarah Kay


End file.
